Goodbye, My Almost Lover
by DestinyShiva
Summary: Sex & Implied Character Death "Still smiling, sadness clear in his emerald eyes as he gazed at the man that once was his, he tipped himself off of the edge of the peer - and disappeared from view, not at all bracing to prepare for the smack of the water"


**AN: For the contents of this fic, please do assume that nations _can_ die. Cheers. x**

* * *

_**Based on 'Almost Lover' by A Fine Frenzy.**_

_.com/watch?v=EDEEzS7OV2k_

_"I'd never watch to see you unhappy.__  
__I thought you'd want the same for me._

_Goodbye, my almost lover.__  
__Goodbye, my hopeless dream.__  
__I'm trying not to think about you.__  
__Can't you just let me be?_

_So long, my luckless romance.__  
__My back is turned on you.__  
__Should have known you'd bring me heartache.__  
__Almost Lovers always do."_

* * *

**Goodbye, My Almost Lover**

His fingertips caressed his skin; such a simple, but emotively powerful response. It was like a promise, a sweet whisper in his ear that absolutely everything was going to be good with the world. Foolishly, he believed it. How could he have doubted that strong, definite smile? Everything was perfect, the image of the bright blue sky would be forever engraved in his mind and the light breeze swirling flicks of hair in and out of his lover's face was so captivating that he just couldn't help it. It was impossible to lay back and think to yourself that 'no. You're wrong, this is not it'.

How on earth was he supposed to predict it?

That the sweet touches, and those sweet words of his ("I'll always be loving you. Don't forget it, alright?") were just a lie. But they were so genuine. So genuine that of course - of course he was to be fooled. Life had never been greater for them - never. He personally had never been happier.

It was true that the sun seemed to shine brighter when you look at it through the reflection of somebody else's eyes - and that it was so much warmer when you were encompassed in someone else's arms. Even more so when that 'someone else' was the one you had forever longed for. When they, _him_, were everything you had ever dreamt of, and even more than that. He actually thought this would last forever. He believed those words. So how... how could he have gotten it so inconceivably wrong?

He could remember that backdrop perfectly. The sun was just about to start setting, and the other blonds' arm was wrapped tightly around his waist. As if the other never, ever wanted to let him go. As much as he complained pointlessly about how tight the grip was, or how the scent of the sea barely fifty yards in front of them was beginning to make him want to sneeze - he loved it in reality. The palm trees were rustling in the wind, singing tunes to fill their peaceful embrace with sound. Besides them, the beach was entirely abandoned. He was not sure, but he was almost convinced that his love had pulled some strings to make sure they could be here together, uninterrupted.

Arthur Kirkland had his head laid against Alfred's shoulder, as he watched the waves swill into the shore. The sea was calmed, and bizarrely tropical in colour - so blue that it could have burned his retinas if he stared long enough. Though in the sanctity of his mind, he did not compare that water's colour with that of the sky high above them, hanging a ceiling over their scene and reminding them that the world was not limitless - though only barely. But instead, he thought of the eyes of the person next to him. So bright, so vivid; 'Honest', his mind even said without any hesitation.

He had no reason to doubt.

His own eyes hazarded closing, being so comfortable and tranquil that the sight of the sea. The warmth of his lover's presence made him so sleepy that Arthur just couldn't contend with keeping his eyes open. A small clause left the other's mouth, and wearily he looked up to watch his one-and-only begin to sing. Alfred had a lovely voice, if he was honest. The sort of voice that people stopped and paid heed to if they heard it in passing.

With a slight snort, Arthur realised he recognised the tune Alfred was portraying - a Spanish lullaby from back in the past. The Spanish had a stake in Alfred's land such a long time ago, and he loved that the American could remember so far back. His memory was so fierce, that boy. Although, if he was in a different setting, say a pub for instance, he would have let an ounce or so of jealousy take over his heart. But as he was, he was lulled gently by that sweet melody, body slowly falling limp as Alfred continued.

As he fell asleep, he managed to look up and see the momentary sadness deep in the American's eyes. Those blue eyes that he thought were so honest, and so damned truthful. He thought nothing of it, fact not even digesting. Yet upon reflection, that should have been it. That should have been his one and only clue to understanding what was happening.

It was such a clever trick. He was entirely betrayed by the trust he distilled in that loving person.

If he had paid more attention then maybe he would have spotted even more of the signs. Like how Alfred's fingertips were shaking ever so gently when he touched the Brit - or how he didn't make eye contact whenever he spoke to him. Even that morning, back at the hotel they stayed at, when he turned down Arthur's suggestion to make love one more time before they were due to check out early morning the next day.

When he finally did coax him into bed with him, Alfred was distracted from the kisses. Arthur just thought he was playing hard to get, or was worried about the journey back home, and continued his loving assault regardless. The Brit took it upon himself to call the stakes, riding the American on his own terms while the man underneath him bucked up into the Englishman's tight heat without the usual intimacy. Though still, Arthur didn't doubt him. If there was something wrong, he just wanted to make it better. He was honestly a good lover.

He never did want to see Alfred unhappy.

It broke his heart whenever he saw the smile fade off of that caring, loving face - and it had been happening a lot recently. Arthur just wanted to fix it - make it better any way he could. He thought that being a good, attentive lover would help. How was he supposed to know that was the problem? How was he to know that the one person that made him happy was consequentially unhappy because of him?

He'd never wanted to see him unhappy; so why did Alfred not want the same for him?

* * *

_("I'm sorry, Arthur. But... this, this cannot go on."_

_"Excuse me? 'This'? What do you mean by 'this'?"_

_"You and I. This - this relationship. Don't pull that face, Arthur. You must have known this was coming. Don't you realize that it just is not going to work?"_

_"What are you talking about? Alfred, if this is a joke, it's most definitely not funny."_

_"It's not a joke. I told you I was sorry. But, this is going to end right here.")_

* * *

He could remember the setting perfectly, when he heard those three words come out of that mouth for the first ever time. Even now, he could describe the scenery exactly. Perhaps not the amount of clouds that were hanging above them in the freezing night's sky, but enough that the Englishman could have wrote poetry about it; How Alfred's skin was illuminated in the darkness by the moonlight and how their breath was showing when they exhaled. The city skyline shone in the distance, beautiful fading blue of morning appearing at the base from within the dark blue shadows that cascaded the night's sky; stars seen far above as glitter scattered to and fro.

It stayed all too clearly in his mind, and he drew confidence from it whenever the night was cold and hopeless. For the sole reason that Alfred was right there - _right there_ besides him. It meant so much, that seeing a city at night used to take him back to that one little spot where they saw each other differently for the first time. Or, at least, allowed that feeling to come into recognised fruition.

Did it not send him back as well? To the times where they had no fears? No reason to be afraid?

Their hands intertwined for the first time since the deep, long betrayed past. Those fingertips were so much warmer than his own, and he could not help but apologise for it. Back then, other had laughed wholeheartedly, and told him that he was just being silly. His heart rocketed in his chest, forcing his cheeks to burn stronger than even before. The touch was so comforting in the cold, and Arthur tried to stop himself from clutching too hard in case he seemed too insistent. Though, his company squeezed tighter, just as if he had read his mind.

Then Alfred told him that it was just how he imagined it to be. That he was exactly how the American hoped he would. Arthur was flattered to find out that he had thought of this, just like he had done. It was perfect - pieces of the puzzle being put together; fitting just as well as their hands did together. They had something dysfunctional but beautiful, a connection that rooted back for hundreds of years, finally having been surfaced. Just knowing their feelings were returned was enough for the both of them.

The 'I love you' was not spoken, but implied as they slowly began the edge closer and closer until they were wrapped around each other in a furious embrace.

The kisses were fierce. As soon as the front door was shut, their shirts had magically found their way tumbling on the floor while skin pressed up against skin. Tongues battled naturally, and both of them knew for a fact that nobody else's lips fit so well against theirs. Nobody else tasted so damned appealing, and the hot sweats developing over foreheads was so normal to a love suddenly realised like theirs.

Pushed against the bed, Arthur spread his legs and moaned so precariously as his length was engulfed by that sopping mouth. Then with fingers hastily pushed inside, he didn't mind the pain and the fact his lower half was burning so strong - because _this was it_. This was what he had been hoping for such a long time. Then when Alfred whispered sweet things into his ears, he knew that the American had been hoping for the same.

But that hope disappeared, and the sweetness turned out to be nothing but sweet nothings, did it not?

* * *

_("No... A-Alfred, I don't understand. What do you mean 'it just is not going to work'? How can you say that? You were my... you were supposed to be my-How could you just break off like that?_

_Didn't this mean anything to you? I thought you told me that you'll always love me! Were you lying all along? ...Are you lying about this too?"_

_No! No! Don't move away from me! Please-Please don't! I've only just gotten you back! Don't go!_

_Damn it, I need you! Alfred? Alfred, you can't! Whatever happened to 'forever'? Am I just... am I just not good enough for you again?_

_Come back! Al...! I love you. Come back. Come back to me..._

_This... this is it?)_

* * *

As it turns out, getting over heartbreak was not the easiest thing in the world.

The very sight of the ocean made his heart tug, remembering how barely hours before Alfred broke up with him for the indefinite, murkily fogged future, the sea was the scene to their last hurrah as a couple. Salt, for instance, left a unsavoury taste in his mouth that Arthur wanted to be rid of. While with him, blue had become his favourite colour - because of those bright blue eyes, filled with enthusiasm and chastity that only Arthur could know he did not have. Now, a small sense of loathing surrounded it.

Despite this, he would never describe his feelings towards Alfred now as anything near akin to hatred. The pain was not one that he would ever want to wish on others - delirious feeling spinning his head into aches every time there was a mention of him.

Mentions of _him_ were everywhere. You only had to turn on the television, look through a newspaper or even listen to words on the street to hear of that country across the ocean. It was not like in the old days - when he was left for the first time by the same damned person - where you could escape from the ridiculous media or the troubles seizing him because of the loss in terms of government.

Nowadays, it was impossible to forget. While humans, the lucky fools, could let go of something by just drifting away - he couldn't. The British Isles was barely moving by an inch or so per year in the opposite direction. And as humans could avoid people, he was trapped. They worked so close together.

He would have to remember it each and every time. How Alfred apologised deeply and pressed a soft kiss to his lips right before the two of them departed. It was not imbued with love, as the Brit had always thought it was, but with a reluctant goodbye. The promise to part ways.

There were other places, of course, that had this horrible feeling about them whenever he got near. Every little small coffee shop he passed. Each time he smelt anything slightly like McDonalds made him gag and choke, because he'd remember that taste, and that smell, and automatically associate it with _him_. Night was one of the most difficult times of all - whenever he drove on his way home or gazed out of the window, out into the city with a million stars decorating the streets and the skies combined, he was taken straight back to then. _Then_, when Alfred first touched his lips. When Alfred first let him know that this was it - their relationship was here, indefinitely, and they'd make it last for as long as they could.

People lose interest so quickly, do they not? England was just the fool that got stuck behind in the mud, while the rest of the world moved on. The one trapped in the dark.

It was hard to fall asleep without those arms engulfing him; swallowing him up in an ocean of warmth and intimacy. The bed besides him always felt so unfathomably empty. Why was it that when you first get a double bed to yourself, it feels so lovely and big, yet when you no longer have someone to share it with, it is the loneliest place in the world?

Getting up in the mornings was, however, the hardest of them all. No kiss on the cheek to welcome him back to the world. No warm smile to greet, and reassure him. If he had thought about it, he would have realised easily just how wealthy he was with the little things that made his life ever so rich. That considerate early morning cup of tea, already waiting on the table for him when he finally got the will to slink out of bed. The atmosphere, smitten with the shower fumes, as his lover erased the residues of 'last night' from his satisfied body. The taste of the breakfast that was made for him, so he wouldn't murder the smoke alarm with emissions again.

All gone. Every last bit of it.

Arthur Kirkland never got out of bed a single second before he _had _to, these days - and there certainly wasn't anything there to cheer him up. So sometimes, he'd sing that Spanish lullaby again. Fuck Antonio - Arthur would swallow his pride. His voice would always stray to try imitating the voice of the person that it was meant to represent, but the accent always meant wrong and muddled. Being alone meant nothing, _nothing _could ever replace it.

It was so easy for a human to get over heartbreak. Or at least, it was in comparison to one of _them_. Just how long had he been waiting for those darling three little words? Just how many times was it lied to him from the mouth he trusted the very most? Why couldn't these thoughts, memories, _images _just leave him be? Arthur tried to let it go. He really did. But, hundreds of years was the season of his - _their_ - longing for one another.

With Alfred, it took five years. Five years was enough to drive away the person he loved. Did he really love that boy just _too much_?

He never, ever wanted to see him unhappy ever again. Why didn't he _- he - _feel the same...?

* * *

"I'll never forget this. What we had. But, that's all it'll ever be. What we..._had_."

* * *

World Conference meetings were just the same - if not even more of a heartache. Because every other part of the day, every other time of the year, he could avoid contact with that particular person the best he could. Yet, this was compulsory. He was forced to sit in the seat that was too uncomfortable for words, and listen to speech after speech at a time, mind dulled with propositions and protocols that for some reason they were supposed to be interested in.

Then _he_ steps up. The whole room seems to be illuminated, just like the sun did when it shone on that beautiful ocean lining, or as the streetlamps did late at night - and he couldn't help but stare. Like a moth attracted to an electrifying light; he was fixated, against his better will.

Then he heard _his_ words, and Arthur's throat went parched. It was just like him to move on so quickly, and he could tell it so easily in his voice how unbothered he was. His voice did not crack, nor pitch waver with upset and heavens, Arthur was not deaf - he could hear the excitement in his tone, whenever he suggested one of his stupid ideas. Ideas that he often came up with on the spot, and Arthur knew it. They shared secrets so easily before. Maybe that was another sign. He stopped airing his thoughts so abruptly; perhaps that was why Arthur did not notice.

It was hard to see that something was gone, at times, until it was waved right in your face.

People called out to him; and Arthur realised finally that he had not had anything prepared. Of course he did not have anything. Nobody thought to give him some space and time. No one apart from the two of them knew a single bit about what they had. What he will always be mourning softly in his heart. Then their eyes linked, and he felt the beginnings of tears prickle in the corners. He had been so distracted in the days before, unable to think of a single thing to bring to the conference, while there was only one person on his mind. That ending smile haunted his thoughts, dreams, and by God did Arthur wish it would leave him be.

There were small titters about his behavioural conduct, and Arthur could not take it. Alfred chuckled along, and spoke out as well. Though it was not the fact that other people were looking at him with sceptical eyes when small droplets of tears fell from his cheeks that devastated him the very most. No. It was the fact that he - _he_ - had made a joke as well about how disorganised he was. It was hurtful, but not the words - just the fact that he said something, in that mocking manner, was enough for him to break.

Something inside of Arthur clicked into place, and he realised just how hopeless his little dream was - the frantic dream to have this all healed. He was not aware of people pointing or murmuring shocked comments to one another - focusing on the one and only person that ever mattered. Because once you started crying, it was almost impossible to stop until there was nothing else to give. His body shook, and he stood - turning his back on _him_, turning his back on _this _and everything that reminded him of what the two of them once possessed. Love, that little touch of death between them.

He figured that this was enough. His mind had been presented with the decision ever since they had broken up in the first place; the choice to forgive, forget, and move on - or the choice to let these feelings end the easy way. Perhaps he was just too weak to let his heart get past this; or maybe it was the fact that he did not want to let go. So what if these images were engrained into his mind for as long as he would live? Because, as much of a hopeless dream it was, he still held onto it deeply.

Though it could not go on. Enough was enough. He did not want to be haunted by a ghost of past come to part for any longer.

When Arthur found himself in Alfred's study, not too long afterwards, he knew exactly what he was doing. He would take these images of him with him to the grave, and that was where he would stay. Trying not to think about his luckless romance was a task so absolutely fruitless that he had to end it. So finally, his courage had been plucked.

His hand had trembled when he left a single envelope on the American's desk. The letter was sealed inside by red wax, unsteady handwriting dictating what Arthur knew would be the last ever recorded detail of his words.

He whispered the same words written on the page, and let that letter go.

Turning his back against that place - tears having left his pallid cheeks a long, long time ago - he stepped away from there with his shoes tapping on the creaky floorboards, and his face blank with void emotion. It was useless to him now, to think about what they had. Not _now_. His feet started pulling him by themselves, and he was too distracted with his steps to notice the distraught look of the man heading towards the door he had just left.

Thinking about it, as his foot pressed down on the gas pedal and the fingers on the steering wheel tightened until they were barely a shade above white; he realised quite the extent of how easy it seemed for _that person_ to let him go - and not for the first time. There was not a sign of heartbreak on the other's part, and there never was. Perhaps he was far too over emotional. Was there just nothing for the American to mourn? It was like he did not even possess a conscience, or maybe he just did not share the feeling that Arthur did from the very beginning.

God, those eyes were always so genuine. _So genuine_, and yet so sad. Just as if he was trying to hide something - and now what he hid, in Arthur's mind, was clear. To remember was enough for Arthur's heart to plummet far past the level of the ground, until the molten magma was searing it and leaving him bare and soulless.

He bet he was just fine. Arthur could not imagine that beautiful smile of his slipping, ever. In fact, a small place of him wished Alfred really did not need him.

Did he make it that easy for Alfred to walk straight out of his life...?

* * *

The ocean gave an air so raw and brisk that it made him sneeze to be near it, and his throat have that certain scratchy tone that made breathing that little bit harder. Although it could have just been the constant want to break down into tears once again as he walked, leaving his car behind, and strained himself to stop his fingers clasping his cheeks and allowing himself to sob into them.

The panels of the wooden peer creaked underneath his feet, and Arthur was glad it was abandoned this time of the day. It was hard to believe that so many people stood on it during the day, because it made a rickety noise as he moved, swaying ever so slightly as the sea clashed into the pillars holding the entire structure upright. That did not matter regardless - his steps were so wobbly that the movement of the wood was countered by his own body. Reaching the end, Arthur Kirkland could only stare out at the ocean and wonder.

Far, far beyond that glistening red sea - decorated darkly with the sun threatening to disappear behind that chaotically amber horizon - was himself; the old island that had gone out of its prime years ago. The muscles of his throat jarred in the memories. Why was it that everything was wonderful - perfect, even - back then? When he had never set a single foot on the land of the west, when thinking of this fruitful land across the gigantic North Atlantic ocean. To think, he was so small and insignificant nowadays. He was the sort of old veteran that nobody cared to listen to anymore.

There were two types of people - the bright sparks, those that shine brightly like a firework, or a giant star; before it slowly crumbles and never impacts the world again. Then there were those that did not show themselves off, but lasted twice as long. Those were the types that really changed the world.

Neither of him, nor Alfred were the latter sorts. That much was easy to see - but he had already slowly fizzled out of existence. Now it was Alfred's time to shine through the night's sky. But for him? His embers were finally fading out.

For him, this was it. He already had his supernova moment. So if he could not, and refused to move on; the world would just have to move on for him. Without him.

His foot dangled off of the edge, and Arthur looked down at the sea raging beneath. It was not too deep, and any good swimmer would probably be able to fight the current. However, the ironic legacy of the pirate that once upon a time seized the world in his own two hands was the fact that said pirate could not swim. That removed the temptation - and after all, a good captain always went down with his ship. Arthur was not one to go against the old times, tradition.

Old times... it was exactly that which made this so much easier. He was past his prime, living still in the past. Even whether it was four, three, two hundred years ago - or, with his dear lover now departed, just the one; the Brit was so trapped back in remembering what had been and done. It was with mourning that he looked out, onwards, towards the world - and it was with broken heart that he turned away from it.

"_Wait!_" A panting voice in the background came, and Arthur could only swivel to face it. Catching the expression on that lovely American's face was enough for Arthur to subconsciously mirror it. They stared at each other, shocked and devastated. Then he felt his eyes prickle, wanting to cry once again. Arthur resisted. He would not cry now. He was bravery than that. On this, the last day - _the last moment_ - he owed the world salvation from any more of his tears being shed.

Instead, a small smile peaked onto his lips - and in the saddest way, the Brit let it take over his expression. It was a thank you, far above anything else. Thank you for coming here, thank you for taking care of me, thank you for moving on - and thank you, most of all, for _loving me_ in the first place.

Alfred seemed to understand what it meant, but he did not seem to digest it. The goodbye must have been too rough for him, Arthur realised, and he reminded himself that he was always like this. He had always been blunt. Maybe that was what had it end. So while Alfred was the one that had gone before; now it was his time.

The American shouted something, but he was too stricken to hear it. When the other started to run towards him, Arthur's instinct was to immediately let it end. Because, he had already made his decision. He would never move on, and so there was only one thing to do to release himself.

Still smiling, sadness clear in his emerald eyes as he gazed at the man that once was his, he tipped himself off of the edge of the peer - and disappeared from view, not at all bracing to prepare for the smack of the water.

* * *

**One Year Earlier**

He did not understand it. Five minutes ago, and the whole world was spinning around perfectly around his head. Now, it was swivelling as bizarrely as a gyroscope - round and round in disproportionate patterns that he would not understand for the life of him, even if he sat down and tried to consider it for hours and hours on end.

Alfred was dumbstruck, and he stared at his superior with grief written clearly on his expression. They shuffled their papers awkwardly while they waited for the obvious onslaught of critiques and frantic excuses. Predictably, it did not take long at all, and once the initial shock sunk in Alfred slammed his fist against the desk so hard that the wood splintered. On a normal day, after a normal request, he would have apologised profusely for the destruction. But this was either.

"You are mad, do you know that? Completely fu-_damned_ mad!" He shouted, barely being able to contain himself from swearing badly at his boss. His skin had gone somewhat red already, filled with grief and stress directed to the words spoken to him barely a moment ago. Civilised, his boss merely cleared his throat. It was obvious this was difficult for him to do too, but dear God, there was no possible way he could empathise with the emotions running through his own country's head and heart.

"America, let me explain this. Being in a relationship with another country is very risky. Not only will other nations become wary of your intimacy, feeling threatened by the current and previous superpowers of the world, but also we have our security secrets to consider. Now while I do not doubt that England has their spies here in the United States, and we have ours there - information far too top secret for another government's eyes has always been far too heavily protected. There is a possibility, Alfred, that he is with you because he wants to determine our military secrets, among other things he could get you to slip up with a bit of... well, _persuasion_."

"You're wrong! Arthur's not like that; I have known him for far longer than you have, sir, with respects. Way, way, _waaay_ back before you were even born! I know him! He would never do that! He's been genuine from the very start!" Alfred countered. His boss could only sigh and shake his head.

"I am afraid that I cannot risk this, America. For the good of yourself, and for the good of your people, you _need_ to do it. I will not ask again." His boss said, preparing to finish finally after a long, rough day. A rough day of worrying about telling his country to do exactly this.

"Alfred; break up with Arthur."

As the boss left the office, he let his shoulders unprofessionally hunch with grief as he listened to the nation still inside break down into loud, impenetrable sobs.

* * *

"Alfred, obviously there has to be _something_ wrong." Arthur said, all knowingly. The American barely lifted his eyes from the ground to look at the doubting face of his lover; too afraid of the concern that he would see. This, Alfred's mind told him for the four thousandth time, was horrible.

"Look, if you do not want to talk about it, then it is absolutely fine. But do remember, dear, that I'm here for you if you need it. You understand that, yes?"

Alfred finally looked at him, capturing the sincere and loving glance Arthur was giving him and sealing it in his memories. The images of Arthur letting the soft, lingering frown on his face slowly ripen into a deeply empathetic smile would probably stay with him forever. It was useless to resist that wondrous charm - but for his country and his existence, his boss had tried to convince him that he had to. How was that even possible? A love lasting fifty years strong was a miracle, let alone several times that. Did nobody understand just how compatible the two of them were?

"I hope you know, dear, how precious you are to me."

Arthur's words did not help in the slightest, because everything he said usually ignited warmth into his heart. It was one of the reasons why Alfred invited the Englishman to come on vacation with him - so they could spent some of their very last moments together in peace and happiness. Alas, nothing was ever that lovely and simple, was it?

He could remember it perfectly - the phone call that he retrieved; his boss on the other side with a grim tone to his voice, telling him to come over. The story of how one of the government officials had seen them kissing against a wall in the middle of one of the streets over in New York. Just two lovers going about their rituals. How stupid was it that _they_ had to be treated differently? Just because they were children of the Earth did not mean they were not capable of human emotion.

As if you would ever get told to break up with someone because your job dictated against it. Now, as Alfred watched his beloved come press closer to him with a sympathetic smile on his face, and feel him kiss his lips most fervent and caringly - his own mentality was shutting down. He tried to kiss back, but his body refused to do what he wanted. All he had wanted was to hide this defeated side of him. Because if he did not stay strong, there was no way in fucking hell that Arthur could manage.

He had to do it in such a way that Arthur would _want_ what they had to be gone. If he could make Arthur not want to be with him anymore and they break up then, Alfred would be the only one to break down and be upset. He did not ever want to make Arthur cry, and by God, it would be better to have the Brit hate him than become heartbroken.

If he could make it so only the one of them was destroyed, then he had to go for that. He wanted Arthur to be happy, but there was no way around it. No way he could avoid it either.

This was it; their romance, a cautious dance around one another occurring over the last few hundred years, was going to come to a close - and only because someone else ripped their track off of the record.

Watching his lover strip of his clothes and push him down onto the mattress, Alfred raked his eyes down that glorious body. He could not imagine anyone else possessing it; running their dirty hands all over a person that was, and forever should be his. To think, Arthur might end up spreading those beautifully sexy legs for _someone else_. It made him so internally frustrated and bothered that he almost missed his lover's hand pumping his length and lips coating the very tip; carefully licking whatever Alfred had to give to him - apart from a few well-placed moans and rocks of the hip.

The Briton was so considerate, and Alfred started to hate the fact that Arthur was such a good boyfriend - because it made his own job _so much harder_. Every time he thought of turning that man down, his mouth went dry and parched.

While Alfred was distracted, Arthur had himself balanced at the end of the bed; bent over with knees and face on the sheets, while his backside was in the air - open and ready for him to take. He would have been absolutely fucked if he was not bothered by how Arthur pushed his lubricant-coated fingers into that tight, and oh-so warm body; proceeding to rock back and forth, impaling himself with his own digits for Alfred's enjoyment. But, other than the erection that was beginning to ache in his lap, and his shallowly panting mouth - the American was not thinking about making love to his boyfriend for the very last time.

All he could think about was how he had to, and would, break this man's heart.

It made him wish he could cry.

Crying out into the morning air, Arthur drew himself back up onto the top of his knees to come down with another forced slump - and Alfred moaned along with him, as those tight muscles absorbed his cock and flexed to adjust himself constantly. The air, albeit warm in reality, felt so cold after his member was inside his soul-mate to the very hilt. The Englishman did all the work, riding him with no restraint - as if he thought this was their last day on Earth. To Alfred, it really was.

As he climaxed, filling the Brit with his essence until it dribbled out of that freshly abused hole, Arthur kissed him sloppily - breathing so huskily from the sex that Alfred wanted to breathe life back into those lungs.

When Arthur told him, again, that he loved him... Alfred could only reply with an '_I know_'.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Arthur. But... this, this cannot go on." He said, trying to pull a face so empty that it could be compared to slate. His heart thundered in his chest, and it was a wonder that his words even came out straight.

"Excuse me? 'This'? What do you mean by 'this'?" Came the reply. Alfred knew for a fact that this was going to be difficult - but he never quite appreciated the scale of it; the sheer magnitude of sorrow condensing his chest into one crushed up, dense ball.

Fuck. He loved - _loves_ - Arthur so much. How was it supposed to be possible for him to watch that beautiful face of his steadily crack?

"You and I. This - this relationship. Don't pull that face, Arthur. You must have known this was coming. Don't you realise that it just is not going to work?" Alfred repeated, furrowing his eyebrows in attempts to stop himself from stuttering or just coming clean on the whole damned thing. That this was not occurring out of choice.

"What are you talking about? Alfred, if this is a joke, it's most definitely not funny." Arthur asked, voice so quiet now that Alfred would not have heard him if he did not listen. But heck, Alfred was listening - he was listening to every single word, and the noise of that little thing in the Englishman's chest shattering.

"It's not a joke. I told you I was sorry. But, this is going to end right here." Please believe him, he hoped to high Heavens. He really was sorry. Yet, the look on Arthur's face was so honestly striking that he could not help but turn his gaze away. Maybe that would help - though Alfred let a deep part of himself wish that Arthur saw the sadness in his eyes and the tensing of his muscles. If he saw how unwilling he was for this to happen, would Arthur see hope?

"I'll never forget this. What we had. But, that's all it'll ever be. What we..._had_."

"No... A-Alfred, I don't understand. What do you mean 'it just is not going to work'? How can you say that? You were my... you were supposed to be my-How could you just break off like that?" Arthur shot back quickly. Frantically, even. A lump shoved its way into Alfred's throat. "Didn't this mean anything to you? I thought you told me that you'll always love me! Were you lying all along? ...Are you lying about this too?"

"I don't lie, Arthur!" Alfred interjected back, almost shouting now. He could not control his frustration, and he hoped Arthur would take heed of it. If Arthur paid attention to what he had said at the beach, back before their flight back home, then he would understand...

Instead, he took a step backwards. Looking up, Alfred felt his breath hitch as he found himself caught in those gigantic emerald green eyes; so wide and haunted that the American could see all the way around them.

He could not help it when he shot forwards and took Arthur's chin in his hand, pressing a kiss to that soft mouth. The other blond stayed static, not at all flinching away nor leaning into it. It was closure to something that should never have been torn apart. The mark of the very end.

As he pulled back, Arthur did not say a word, as he took another step away, and then turned and ran.

Alfred could only watch, horrified, as the best thing that had ever happened to him left, while the American tried desperately to stop himself caving down and chasing after.

* * *

A year down the line, and Alfred had not gotten rid of that mental image; of Arthur standing, wide-eyed, with his heart seeping out of his chest like liquid. The American did not even attempt to contact him, in case the other exploded at him with anger and in a way that Alfred just could not handle. Of course, he would accept the words willingly. Anything to act as comeuppance for what he had done.

Arthur was such a recluse at times; he was certain that his stuffy old Brit would stay at home, trying to avoid contact with the outside world as much as physically possible. Either that, or visit those pubs of his on so many separate different occasions. Every time he thought of Arthur getting so drunk and off-his-rocker that he collapsed on the cold, hard floor for anyone to manhandle; he got ridden with a jealousy that was hard to break.

While, for Alfred, he was a busy superpower. There was a lot of injustice in the world, and he suffered at the hand of only one example; yet, it was enough to have the two nations stale with silence between them. International relations were at the peak of their most unstable. If Arthur busied himself crying over him, Alfred busied himself by doing work, work, and more work _non-stop_. His presentations were done on time, and superbly polished to even a standard that Ludwig could not disapprove of. The relationship with his boss did not suffer, because Alfred tried to convince the man that he thought he was right. He had to. But, how wrong could that deduction be?

Travelling down the corridor after the meeting, Alfred found himself haunted with a new mental image. Arthur's crying face, after all this time, renewed the struggle their break-up caused for the both of them. Arthur really did get so affected by his words? He cared still, and that was enough for Alfred to break as well.

Screw his boss. Screw his damned country, for all he cared. He, the United States of America, was the fighter against all that was unjust in the world - and he would be cursed to hell if this was not fixed. Because after so many months of holding his feelings back and pretending - for Arthur's own good - that he was able to move on, he deserved to be selfish.

If there was one thing in the world that he wanted more than anything, it would be to hold him again.

Alfred looked ahead in shock, as Arthur exited from his office, with his eyes all teary. The American's heart thumped loudly in his chest, and it took the entirely of his willpower to stop himself running after Arthur. But, something struck him - something akin to curiosity, or maybe it was a drawing sense that told him he had to look inside his office. Urgency gripped him, and he rushed into his office - trying to see what had been altered. The white envelope at his desk stuck out more than a sore thumb, and Alfred swallowed thickly. His instinct had been correct, evidently.

His fingers did not bother opening it properly by removing the red seal. Instead; they ripped open the side, dragging out the letter and tossing the other pieces carelessly away, onto the floor or wherever the hell they went. The American was paying so little attention to the state of his office; eyes focused on the message his past love left.

As soon as his eyes raked through the text, Alfred's eyes widened, and the letter slipped out of his hands. He recalled the look Arthur had, his awkward stature as he ran away from that place earlier, and suddenly Alfred understood exactly why.

Staying frozen for barely a second longer, Alfred grabbed his car keys from inside his coat and ran as fast as he could after him.

* * *

_"Goodbye, my almost lover._

_Arthur."_

* * *

By the time that Alfred managed to pull up by the seaside docks, it was almost too late. The sky was already wearing the moon as its pendant as the sun sunk down past the curvature of the Earth like quick sand. He almost forgot to unbuckle his seatbelt before he slung open the door and ran with all his might to the grounded end of the peer. The sounds he made with his frantic footsteps did not seem to jar Arthur at all, as the other blond stared up into space – barely hanging over from the edge. With the letter he retrieved, he knew for a very fact that he was not messing around.

"_Wait_!" Alfred shrieked at the top of his voice – though that seemed only just enough to catch Arthur's limited attention. He stopped at the end of the peer, afraid to come any closer just in case the Brit decided to do the stupidest thing in the entirety of his life. Once they were facing each other, Alfred's internals were shaking. All he had to do was say the right words to make Arthur believe that he did, indeed, still love him. But that sounded so much simpler than it actually was. The American took one step closer, not daring to glance at the sea below. The other could not swim, and it was a badly kept secret. Even waters as subtle as that could claim him easily, and Alfred knew it far too well.

He opened his mouth to speak, though Arthur immediately interrupted him – not with words, nor prominent actions; but with the single most demoralizing thing he had ever seen in his life. The smile was so thick with apology and subdued appreciation, that Alfred knew that he was already going to be too late. Screaming into the evening breeze, he called out for Arthur to stop the second he saw the Englishman flinch even slightly. Then suddenly the wooden panels of the peer were creaking to no ends as the American ran for his love's life towards the end; hand outstretched, trying to reach Arthur before it became too late.

The entire world was silent as Arthur pushed off of the peer.

...Then became even louder as Alfred threw himself to the ground, right at the edge, and reached – reflexes shooting into action – as he just managed to grasp hold of Arthur's wrist. The wooden boards crunched underneath him, and he could have sworn that the sea started raging even faster now that Arthur was dangling, barely by his grip. Alfred's facial expression turned into one of desperation as the Brit's arm was beginning to slowly falter out of his fingers.

"Alfred...?" Arthur said, shocked beyond belief. The American did not want to look into that face, because he knew what he would see – the expression of a man that had already long since given up.

"...Did you really think I wanted to leave you, Arthur?" Alfred called out immediately, trying to blot the other's reactions out of his mind. Hanging over the edge with barely any of his torso holding him up and in place was difficult to do on his own without falling off; let alone when weighed down by one more person. He gritted his teeth, trying to pull Arthur up without the expenditure of his abdominal muscles, because they were already preoccupied in keeping him from tipping over as well.

Arthur was silent for too long, so he took it upon himself to continue. "Did I give you the impression that you weren't enough for me that bad? Christ!" He growled, making uncomfortable noises as he tried to heave the Brit up. That was; without his finger hold on him slipping. Arthur was no help, teetering to his potential death with minimal regret. "Arthur, I never meant any of those words. You mean the whole fucking world to me... I told you, didn't I - how sorry I was? I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm so sorry...!"

"D-Don't give me that! You're lying all over again!" Arthur rebounded back, and Alfred's mind hitched long enough for a centimetre or so of the Englishman's wrist to slip out of his grip. Struggling to maintain it; Alfred focused on trying to keep the Brit holding onto him steadily. Maybe if there was a little more co-operation, he could do this.

"I don't lie, Arthur!" Alfred shouted back, full force. Underneath him, hanging hardly two or three metres above the misty salt water, Arthur let the words that had come to mind wisp straight out of his head. He stared up above, shocked by the words and the sudden nostalgia coming over him; the same, sweet sadness lingering in Alfred's eyes back then, when they finally parted ways. It knocked the smaller bodied man completely speechless, and the American was more than happy to continue.

"You never quite get it, do you? I can't believe that you didn't believe in me! Do you have that little faith? Or do you just not believe that, I don't know, that someone could love you in the way that you do to them?" Alfred asked, look of upset compassion washing over his face. "Arthur, I still love you. So don't let go. Whatever you do, don't let go."

"If you loved me, _why did you do it_? You can't trample in and out of my life, Alfred!" Arthur shouted back. Although his tone was like poison, Alfred could tell it was harmless – all sting and no substance. They both could tell the dire weakness in his voice all too well. While Arthur loathed his blatancy, it gave Alfred clear hope. He was slowly breaking down Arthur's resolve to let go; now, if only he could convince him of the most important part...

"My Government found out and my boss told me to shut it down. I had no choice, Arthur – I had no fucking choice. How many times do I have to tell you, again and again how damned sorry I am? ...You could have listened to the damned clues!" Alfred called. "What did I say to you on the beach, Arthur? What did I say to you? Repeat it loud and clear!"

"...I-I'll always be loving you..." Arthur repeated, voice shaking emotively. Their grip loosened again, and Alfred had to shoot forwards dangerously another two or so inches to grab his lover's hand; teetering off of the edge just that little bit more. He struggled to keep himself on the peer, using his spare arm to hold the wooden boards as tightly as he could – though the peer itself was beginning to rock as the tide and wind got stronger as the night approached ever closer.

"—And don't forget it, alright?" Alfred finished, making a pained noise after at the strain on his muscles for keeping them in place. Their fingers were now so tightly intertwined that it felt impossible for their connection to ever become severed again – though Arthur, being ever wise at times but never at others, noticed a clear weakness in Alfred's stance. He shook his head slightly, realising that no matter what they tried; it would be hopeless anyway.

"...Alfred—Alfred, let me go." Arthur said softly.

"No!" Alfred almost screamed back, possessively like a child trying to do all it can to save his favourite toy. He slipped another inch or so, and soon the American was only staying by power of his legs; hips now also over the side. The water rushed ominously below, and he stared at it with horror – right before his and Arthur's eyes linked; earthly green to sky blue, their whole world reflected in one another.

"Al, darling, if you don't let me go – we'll _both_ drown." Arthur told him, far too calmly for his own good. It struck him so hard that he could have sworn that goose-bumps were now flaring wherever they could, and a chill ran down his spine. The American shook his head again, lip quivering as he watched the man he loved hold his hand right before the very end.

"A-Arthur—Arthur, I can't...!" Alfred said, filled with emotion. The feelings he had tried to oppress for a year by now finally slipping out.

"You don't have a choice, Alfred. It's me, or the both of us." Arthur said. The terror was clear now in his face, and it did not help the other blond keep himself in check at all. A few tears fled the corners of his eyes, and Arthur understood exactly why. With a soothing voice, he continued; "I love you..."

"No—No, wait—Wait, Arthur, don't you dare!" Alfred shrieked in panic, blinking the tears away. He tried to grasp frantically as the fingertips enclosed along with his loosened on their own. "I'm not letting you go! Not again! Arthur, Arthur please! Just hold on a little bit longer...!"

"Who is going to come to help us, Alfred? Nobody is going to get here in time. This—This time, this is it." Arthur pointed out, to the American's severe chagrin. Then, his face flashed with that soft, apologetic look one more time. The sadness was wiped straight out of the Englishman's eyes, and all that filled in the blanks was gratitude. If Alfred had the time, he would have gaped at the sheer audacity of it. But in reality, he just did not have that fatal few seconds to spare. With a smile on his face, Arthur gave on last, fruitful laugh.

"...Goodbye, my Alfred."

He released his grip on the American, and in turn Arthur was relinquished from his touch. Alfred screamed louder than he ever had before after him, crying like a typhoon, as that person collided with the water and out of sight.

Immediately, he glared with scarily open eyes into the sea; trying to see if he could spot any sort of sign for the other. The water swirled, swallowing the whole scene up with murky colours and copious lines of white froth. A private part of him damned the fact that it was getting to be night time – because the water was barely a shade or two above pitch black in the low levels of light. The entity seemed completely solid, unable to be penetrated by his eyes. Arthur had disappeared inside of it entirely.

Without hesitation, the American did either the most stupid or most sensible thing he had done in his life. He swallowed down the feeling of his chaotically beating heart, stood, and tossed himself off of the peer and into the water below.

He had to find Arthur before he drowned, if it were the last thing he would ever, ever do.

The next thing Alfred knew, he was being engulfed by the waves. When you had lost your balance from the fall, it was so easy to become digested inside entirely – vortexes of water swirling around and sucking him further down, deep, deep, deep into the ocean lining. His mouth filled with water, and he tried to force the water out with his tongue. The salty taste lingered, and the cavity of his mouth filled with his exhaled breath as he forced himself not to inhale the dirty water, choking and drowning.

Opening his eyes was a fierce task that Alfred could barely contend with. As soon as his pupils impacted with the water, they burned horrifically at the salt, muck and blurry sensation - although Alfred tried his best to keep them wide, despite the sting. Vision was even harder, as his glasses were completely useless – and the smash into the ocean had knocked them clean off of his face. Before he got a chance to mourn the state, however, he swivelled against the viscous current, searching around for his target. For the both of them, time was running out.

In the nearby distance – only just within his view – Alfred noticed a thick stream of bubbles head towards the surface. His mind told him, definitely, that that was it. That was him. Without even one or two strokes heading to his destination, the lack of oxygen building up in his body was too much. His head felt like it was going to explode. Risking it, Alfred shot to the surface and took the biggest breaths he possibly could; letting out pants into the air.

Instead of diving down straight away, he travelled to the spot where the bubbles were coming from as fast as he could – swallowing up oxygen while he could. He noticed, with a slightly easier heart, that the tide was steadily drawing the two of them towards the beach. But, waiting for the water to drag them there would be far too late. If Alfred had lost control of his breath already once, then by now Arthur – of whom had been in for nearly a minute longer – might have drowned by now.

If that was the case... God, Alfred did not know what on Earth he would do.

Getting to the spot where he swore the bubbles came from – it was so risky to note that there was no longer a source. Arthur had exhaled all he could, and would without a doubt be suffocating more and more by the passing second – Alfred took another deep breath and dived down, swimming as fast and strongly as he could. Within seconds, he could see the vague shape of another human shape, and swum there with all his might.

Reaching Arthur, he grabbed him by the waist using one arm, making the next do all the work. He was already tired out from swimming frantically before, and from the strain of holding onto the Englishman while he could over the edge of the peer; and putting all the pressure on one arm again was not at all easy. He burst to the surface, taking a few more breaths and tried to swim for shore; guided by the flow of the current.

A bitter part of him noticed that Arthur did not take a saving breath either; and that the Brit was already deathly pale. His body sagged against his, floppily floating alongside as Alfred finally found his feet touching down on the sand. The waves pushed the two of them forwards, bobbing along until they were halfway up the beach; when the tide sunk away without them. Alfred snapped straight into business, not giving himself the chance to get his breath entirely back before he grabbed Arthur's body, and carried him bridal style at a rushing pace up to the safer part of the beach front.

"Fuck—Fuckity, fuck, _fuck_..." Alfred swore over and over again, shaking as he stared at Arthur's drowned body, water-locked. It was obvious that he was not breathing, but Alfred checked anyway. Searching for a pulse, he was still terrified when he found absolutely none. His blue eyes filled with fearful tears, _again_, and he realised that it was already too late. He was not fast enough to stop it.

Being himself, he refused to believe it. So he did the very first thing that popped into mind – Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Ripping Arthur's clothes off of his chest, Alfred tosses them away and set straight to work now that the Brit's cavity was exposed. Remembering from random health and safety courses that were made compulsory – thank the Heavens for it, and he never thought that he ever would think that – he pressed the heel of his hand against the middle of his exposed chest, and then following with the other, fingers interlacing. His eyes were lit up with worry, as he watched the Englishman for signs of life.

He forced his weight onto his hands, pushing down at the Brit's body until his chest was further than two inches down, and released. The going was difficult, but he was much stronger than most – even with the repetitive strain, he could do this. That was, if it was not too late even for CPR. Pressing down again, Alfred winced when he felt something seem to snap underneath him because of the pressure. Disturbing as it was, health and safety taught him to continue, ignoring the movements of the chest underneath his hands unless it was breath.

"Come on... come on, please—!" Alfred practically begged, slamming another 28 or so compressions in. Once they were done, and he was already beginning to lose hope of Arthur waking up; he swallowed up air and shot over to tilt Arthur's head backwards to open access to his airway. Pinching his nose, Alfred sealed his lips against his lover's; breathing into him. The last time their lips were touching, Arthur was just as immobile. It was so ironic, and Alfred hated the fact. Keeping one eye, at the very least, on Arthur's chest, he was scared to see that his chest did not rise when he breathed out into him. Panicking a little, he repositioned and tried it again. His chest rose, and Alfred let out a glad sigh – though it was not over yet.

Half of him expected Arthur to jam straight back to life on the first go, but Alfred knew better than that. Disappointedly, he repeated the manoeuvre; slamming his palms down into their chest, and breathing into him again – all the while pleading to the drowned Brit to wake up. Then he repeated it again... then again.

"No—Damn it, I'm not going to let you go! I told you...! I told you that you shouldn't let go!" Alfred shouted at Arthur's body, shaking with grievance and allowing tears to run all over again.

Once again, his lips sealed against Arthur's, and he breathed into him; trying as best as he could to give the kiss of life. Those opposing lips felt so cold and wet in comparison to his; filled with so much ocean water that there was hardly a way to breathe life into them at all. Sobbing into the kiss, Alfred reminded himself not to think that it was too late. His fingers groped to Arthur's neck, trying to detect a pulse.

It could not be too late. It just could not...

By the end of the fifth attempt of resuscitation, a small doubting noise inside of him told him that this was all he could do. The only thing left was to give up. But Alfred ignored it. He would revive Arthur or die trying – either way, they had to be reunited. They belonged together, and he knew it. Forget what his boss, his people, and their world thought. This was a tale of two countries – and by the Gods, they were going to make this work.

He forced the side of his fist against Arthur's chest, with as much of his strength as he could. The bones gave underneath his shot, but he cared absolutely none. The dark sky and the stars loomed over them ominously, shining a little duller. Slamming his fist down again, he beat out his frustrations on that poor drowned Brit's body – doing all he could ever think of to bring him back to life. Alfred reached up, and cupped his cheek in his hand; stroking his thumb against those pasty cheekbones.

"I—" Slam "—Won't—" slam "—Le-Let—" _slam_ "—you—" _slam_... "—die like this!" Alfred shrieked, punching his fist into the exposed chest so hard that another rib crunched. The air filled with his anguished scream, and his body shook from the weight of the world crushing his shoulders.

Then coughing took liberty to save the world from plunging into silence.

Alfred watched; heart rocketing within his chest as Arthur's own finally came back into action. The Brit recoiled to the side, choking and spluttering water out of his throat; throwing up against the beach sand, emptying himself of absolutely everything clogged in his stomach and lungs. He gasped for breath, shaking like a leaf and nearly as much as the American was. Lacking hesitation, Alfred came besides him, and cupped Arthur's head in his hands.

The Englishman stared up at him, wonderment washing over him as the ocean washed out. Choking on the burning sensations in his throat, and wincing at the broken bones at his chest; Arthur gazed, bewildered by Alfred's presence. Then his eyes looked frantically around, and connected with the image of the peer many, many yards away in the distance. Searching again, they settled on Alfred questioningly.

"I told you that you should not let go..." Alfred choked out, drowning on his own sobs rather than the sea water. Then he flashed a smile, apologetic and loving – just like the one Arthur had offered, just before he tried to allow himself to die – and Arthur knew that _this_ was it. _This_ was the end; they were going to be together, and that was the end of it. A new image engraved into his mind; the image of Alfred's relief, after he saved his life, and consequentially each other in the process.

* * *

**Author may write an epilogue ;).**

**Hope you don't hate me for the angst and the teasing. And thank you for reading. (JOLLY, it rhymes!).**


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